Good morning

Good morning.
I'll begin a regular post. Towards the end of every month I'll nominate the poetry book that I most enjoyed or was most impressed by in the previous few weeks. So here's the book for March.



Recently, I wrote a poem for Ken Bolton,
as an attempt at writing about his new book.
I used a long discursive, rambling method to
resemble his style (not as successfully as Ken
does - but he's been writing long wide poems
for over twenty five years - he knows what he's
doing)

I'm not certain how this will fit the blog template
so please use your big browser screen to read it.

For further information on At the Flash & At the Baci please visit Wakefield Press

Day and night, your poems

              what else am I meant to be doing today
                          I can't stop reading your poems
the wind cools now through a gap
      the sash window up a little  
             the windy air swirls, annoyingly, around my legs
I should put the window down
      the day so bright grey and so breezy 
 saying summer's nearly over
           
                        I have only one hour spare 
       before I am to drive over to Fox studios 
                           I can't stop reading your poems
                             I like the way you say 'coffee shop' 
 it's Australian                   never  'café'
    nor 'bar'  which is what you'd say in old Europe
                        where you take a coffee at a bar   or bar tabac
not that what is said being 'Australian'
       matters more or less, it's the way it sounds 
that I like
                                             I've said 'café' in a poem   
                just  to set a neater rhythm 
 around thirty years ago  I called a book of poems 'Café Sport'
    after the Italian Caffe Sport in Leichhardt
           though I'd never written anything there I'd drunk
innumerable espresso coffees         brewed by Lucia
   who kept the chess players' grappa
                         under the counter hidden from the law  
  
*     

                            there's the key at the door to the flat
      the clockyclunky sound of  the lock barrel turning as it opens 
and Jane arrives, back from the city, 
                 happy with the book she's bought
                              from the Language Book Centre
     'Advanced French Grammar' by Monique L'Huillier
not much time to leaf through it though
           and now       no more time for your poems either
                we're off to Fox studios Entertainment Quarter
    to see a  film      

*      

                    I couldn't stop reading your poems yesterday
      and last night I finished them     reading reading    night and day
                     this morning I've placed the book on top of the portable tv set
         next to this small table - the cover and spine remind me 
                                                        of its pleasures
how you blend poetry and daily life 
    or, really,
           how you mix thinking about poetry, thinking about everyday life,
        like an easy interaction of light and geometry 
   setting an example or, even, a standard
                for me - here in this poem I'm trying to write to yours -

                                                      it should be quiet here today
                   Jane's exercising  in the pool at Easts club
        I imagine her splashing up and down a lane
or standing in a gentle whirl of ripples
                             I'm here in the flat
                                              at the laptop 
                                                         again 
     a  flock of Eastern Rosellas or Rainbow Lorikeets 
                or whatever those plump little coloured parrots are 
                                              are squawking in the fig trees outside
the roof man's here
     blowing leaves from the building's gutters with a petrol blower
so -  not quiet
                     as I wonder about that habit in contemporary poetry
         you identify in a poem called 'Coffee'
      how so many poets are fond of using the word 'blue' -
              I'm guilty      -   cobalt blue, saxe blue, small blue view  -
   but I rarely say 'coffee' or 'coffee cup' in a poem
                                                           except for this one
my problem is that so many poets start with nature
    I'm guilty there too
           or      another problem      so many poets                      
      write about politicians who are, really, as ephemeral as nature
    I'm occasionally guilty 
              of passing mentions,  snide - written in a fury

*

                                                        what do I remember ?
         how many lines from the hundreds and hundreds, probably
thousands, of poetry collections I've read
              and the poems submitted to the magazines I've edited ?
I sometimes think of  some of yours  -
                                        'awake & refreshed
                                           tho with nothing on the page'
    can come to mind almost regularly these days
                         and, for me, a craved nostalgia in
    'Rome's night air outside the window, spelling Rome' 

'I don't have a Cruel Theory
                       in my body'
     has become an in-joke between me and myself
'the terrific
days
       of summer'
           from  earlier terrific days, and your poem 'Day & Night'
  your Berrigan-dreaming drinks with friends    
                           'I think continually of those who were truly great,'
                           someone said'
            there it is now         in the someone said
 your poems to John Forbes      
                         remind me to think of him and of his great poetry     
     and your living friends floating through your lines
                          they're signifiers, ne'er-do-wells in art'n'life and greats
participants all in an array of tasks and pleasures of, mostly, an intellect  
     that stays up that extra hour 
                                   so as not to miss the dawn
                        and to later amble down to Hindley Street 
 breathing in the pungent air of a coffee shop
                                                     opening for the day